


Enkindled

by skysedge



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Self-Worth Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skysedge/pseuds/skysedge
Summary: Therion attends the Sainstbridge Kindling in secret.
Relationships: Ophilia Clement/Therion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Enkindled

It’s too bright inside  Saintsbridge cathedral, brighter than Therion had expected. He pulls his scarf more tightly around the lower part of his face and retreats into the shadow of a pillar.

It’s not often that he sets foot inside places of worship and when he does it’s normally in the dead of night. Like this the atmosphere is completely different. Instead of the quiet, dusty darkness he tends to call home the building is alive with activity, filled with anticipation. Sunlight streams through the rainbow facets of the stained-glass windows and the aisle is lined with blazing candelabras. The air is so heavy with the scent of incense that it makes him feel a little nauseous. It’s absolutely the last place he wants to be but today he has to be here. Just this once. 

He has to see it. The way Ophilia will look when she succeeds with the Kindling. The way she’ll smile as she achieves her first goal.

“Tch.”

He’s not ready to think about that yet. Tucked out of sight near the eastern wall of the nave, he watches as the pews begin to fill up. People drift in and take their seats, all turning their eyes towards the altar. Soon the whole cathedral echoes with hushed chatter and gentle laughter. No one has noticed him yet and he’d like to keep it that way. He tucks himself a little further behind the pillar and waits for the others arrive.

He doesn’t have to wait long. They arrive together, Primrose holding  Olberic’s arm and Tressa chattering away excitedly to  Alfyn . Cyrus gets distracted near the door by a statue set into the wall and has to jog a little to catch up as the others head to the pews near the altar. As they take their  seats he can see them glancing around, checking the other seats. Looking for him, probably. He fights the urge to laugh, both because they actually seem to think he’d ever sit and pray in a church and because they’re not actually  _ wrong.  _ He’s here, after all. Not for praying, but for something else. 

He’s unsure as to whether any of them are the same as him.  Alfyn’s too good a person to not respect the worshippers, whether he believes it personally or not.  Olberic and Cyrus are both respectable enough to perhaps be religious but at the same time maybe too intelligent, too world-weary. Tressa is probably too young to have questioned the church, she’s too busy thinking of adventure and profit. Then there’s Primrose. He doubts that Primrose is religious. More than any of the others he feels as if he can understand her a little, the way she sees the world. She wouldn’t come here to pray, doesn’t depend on anything other than herself. She’s here because she still believes in friendship despite the way the world has hurt her and she sits in plain sight with a proud smile, unapologetic. 

Therion can’t imagine how that feels. The last thing he wants is for one of them to notice him. There’s no way he could explain what he’s doing if anyone was to ask. He breathes a sigh as they stop looking around and settle into conversation with one another instead. For  now he can relax and wait.

How long does it take to prepare for a ceremony like this anyway? Growing tired of watching the crowd, he turns his eyes instead to the altar. The fire burning here isn’t as impressive as the one in  Flamesgrace . He supposes that’s the point, the reason they’re here. Back in  Flamesgrace , the holy flame had been bright and bold, had put him in mind of laughter and joy. Whenever Ophilia talks of her childhood, of Lianna and their adventures together, Therion can picture two little girls basking in the light of that flame. In contrast, the one in  Saintsbridge seems tired. It barely rises above the metal stand that holds it, weak fingers of flame brushing the charred wood. It’s an echo of what it must have been once, barely holding on to life. 

Maybe he's just projecting his own feelings onto the sight. A pointless, painful thought. He’s glad when a sudden hush falls over the crowd and signals the start of the ceremony. First the local clergy file in and stand behind the altar, turning to face the flame. Then there’s the sound of familiar boots across the flagstones and Ophilia walks confidently towards the altar from the western entrance.

Therion can’t look away.

She looks...different. She’s wearing the same clothes as she had been this morning but something about her is new. The pale gold of her hair reflects the rainbow hues of the windows like freshly fallen snow, her dress and cloak whiter now than anything he’s ever seen in nature. She’s smiling in that sweet, caring way she always does and as she moves  closer he can see a benevolent light twinkling in her soft brown eyes. He’s fascinated by her eyes, always has been since the moment they met, but only when they’re not looking back at him. She always seems to see right through him. Approaching the altar, she seems so confident and self-assured that if she were to look at him  now he’d be cut clean in two.

Ophilia stops in the centre of the room, smiles at the congregation and then turns to face the  Sainstbridge flame. Therion’s heart stutters at the sight. She’s achingly beautiful, awash with the light from the dying fire and the glow of the lantern in her hands. It’s a wonder he’s not struck down just for having the audacity to witness such beauty. He doesn’t deserve it. She’s worlds away from the one he inhabits. 

She begins speaking the prayer and her voice is the softest music he’s ever heard. No one in the cathedral makes so much as a sigh, not until she approaches the flame and raises her own to join it. In moments, flame spreads from the lantern onto the wood, igniting it anew with ferocity. The quality of the light throughout the whole cathedral changes and this time Therion can hear the  congregation gasping in wonder.

Her flame is different. Everyone has said so. Therion has heard the others call it ‘pretty’ or ‘gentle’, all silly little words that don’t do it justice at all. Here at the cathedral everyone has been calling it ‘kind’. He had snorted into the cover of his scarf when he first heard it. It’s a ridiculous idea. 

Ophilia’s flame isn’t kind at all. It’s bright and fierce and brave, strong enough to illuminate even the darkest shadows and deepest depths whether it’s invited or not. It’s the most terrifying fire he’s ever seen. Therion reflexively shrinks a little further back into the shadows as everyone else leans forwards, eyes wide in awe.

This is where they’re all supposed to pray. He’s listened to Ophilia well enough to know that. But as everyone else follows her lead in closing their eyes and bowing their heads in prayer, Therion still can’t bring himself to look away. 

She almost seems to glow where she stands, a beacon of light and hope. She’s bright enough that his eyes begin to sting. It’s not a new sensation, not limited to the ceremony alone. Over the last few  weeks he’s found himself watching her when he hasn’t meant to, drawn to her presence like a moth to a flame. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing; whether she’s eating in a tavern, playing with Linde or healing them all after a fight, she’s always radiant.

This thought leads him to realise that she’s not carrying her staff right now. It’s probably in a back room, unattended. She probably hadn’t thought twice about leaving herself unarmed.

“Idiot.”

The word is little more than an exhale but it grounds him. It seems to him as if the flame dims at the sound of his voice, as if the shadows grow a little darker. Of course. This is how things should be. If there really is any such thing as grace, if Aelfric really does listen to prayers and bless His followers, then there’s no way Therion could ever be a part of it. He’s not good or kind, not like the others, as far from Ophilia’s pious sweetness as it’s possible to be. He’s a sinner through and through. Even in coming here, in satisfying his own curiosity, in longing from afar, all of that only tarnishes his soul further.

He’s beyond hoping for better. He’s known that all along. Yet, for the first time in years, it stings a little to think upon it. 

That alone is a signal that it’s time for him to leave. He pushes away from the pillar and turns to go but something draws his eyes back to the altar, back to Ophilia, and he stops dead in his  tracks. Every other person in the cathedral has their head bowed in prayer. Everyone except Ophilia. 

With her hands still clasped before her, she’s turned to look straight at him. Her smile is as gentle and gracious as ever but something about it pins him in place as surely as an arrow through the heart. His own thunders in his chest as they stare at one another across the open space, his head spins, and he  _ knows  _ this feeling, knows it and fears it more than anything else in the world. It’s not gentle. It’s sharp an unbidden, a hot knife wielded by a gentle smile.

As if sensing his thoughts. Her smile widens, those soft eyes crinkling at the corners, and she mouths two simple words.

_ Thank you. _

The knife twists between his ribs and his reflexes kick into overdrive. It’s a burst of adrenaline as if he’s been physically attacked and when the choice is fight or flight, Therion will always try to choose the latter. From danger. From difficulty. From kindness, too. He drags his eyes away from her at last and turns on his heel, flees along the cathedral wall and out through the main doors, not caring that they thump shut behind him.

Only she will know who it was that left before the ceremony was over. That’s bad enough. 

It’s dim outside  Saintsbridge cathedral. Compared to the bright light of Ophilia’s smile, it’s a mercy. Therion pulls his scarf more tightly around the lower part of his face and retreats into the shadows of backstreets and dead ends, flees back into the world he suits the best.

**Author's Note:**

> Therion wants hugs, he just doesn't know it yet...


End file.
